


The Love Between Two Princes

by EuropasKiss



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Auguste (Captive Prince) Lives, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-20
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:34:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27126584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EuropasKiss/pseuds/EuropasKiss
Summary: As men, Auguste and Damianos came to be celebrated heroes of their nations. As children, they were heroes to each other, discovering life's wonders and navigating its challenges together, constantly pushing back against the forces that threatened to divide them.
Relationships: Auguste & Laurent (Captive Prince), Auguste/Damen (Captive Prince), Damen & Kastor (Captive Prince)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 14





	1. Beginnings

**Author's Note:**

> I inexplicably felt compelled to write this story about fate bringing Auguste and Damianos together in childhood and the two of them growing up side by side. It is still more or less an experiment in my mind, but I'm sharing it here, as this is as good a place as any to keep track of it and hear any feedback anyone wishes to offer. 
> 
> The story is a reimagining of events that take place in the Captive Prince Universe, with some subtle deviations - the main one being that Auguste is only about a year or so older than Damen. 
> 
> Feel free to call me out for my tagging sins but please hold your fire... a) I'm still relatively new to fanfic and sometimes get it wrong and b) the story is still evolving and may change direction.

The little Prince leaned, slightly, into the open the doorway, holding the wooden doorframe in both his hands to steady himself, as he peered into the room. He arched his back and raised himself up onto his toes, but found that he could not see past the bustle of skirts crowded together, heaving like a single organism, making a sound like a unified high pitched coo that made him want to press his hands over his ears. He strained to hear what the women were fussing over, and to see what had captured their attention so completely, but it was futile. 

He sighed. Then, one of the woman stood up straight, and there was opening, and for an instant he saw through the gaggle to his mother’s bed, his mother’s pillow, his mother’s face and eyes, meeting his, drawn to him by her fierce maternal instinct. 

He flung himself back from the threshold and out of sight. His nursemaid had been quite explicit – he was not to enter the woman’s quarters and, most particularly, he was not to disturb his mother’s rest. But with his father not yet returned from the war, and she, taken to her bed these few days past, his existence had felt painfully solitary. All those entrusted with his care were presently either by his father’s side or his mother’s – apart from his tutor, perhaps, but there was only so much epic poetry he could recite in a single day! 

And it was distracting to have everyone so preoccupied with this… this… _development_. Always to his exclusion. He frowned and folded his arms with frustration… and his lips began to quiver. 

“Auguste.” 

His head turned as he heard his mother’s voice, and his arms fell to his sides. It had been so long… or at least, the few days since they had spoken felt like forever. He leaned back against the wall, as though to feel just that little bit closer to her… 

_“Auguste,”_ she said again, weakly, but straining to be heard. “Come here.” 

Again, his hands pressed again the wooden doorframe, and again, though slower this time, he leaned into the doorway and peered into he room. The skirts had parted, and he could see his mother clearly, laid out on her bed, gesturing for him to come closer. He thought about making a run for it, but not with any real intent. He entered, putting one foot in the other, glancing up only briefly at the flock of women who made way for him to pass. 

When he reached the side of his mother’s enormous bed, he saw, more clearly, the bundle in her arms. It shifted and made a sound, and he flinched backwards and arched his eyebrows in surprise, causing a stir and a chuckle to ripple amongst the women. 

“Come here, my love,” his mother whispered, patting the space beside her, and with some unsolicited help, he was lifted-up onto the bed, by her side. Perhaps sensing that he was reluctant to acknowledge the moving, croaking, alarming little situation between them, she shifted, and pulled away the blankets a little, revealing a soft, red, scrunched up, sweet but angry looking little face. 

Auguste’s heart thrummed with many different emotions. Shock, mostly, but also horror at the prospect of this creature somehow making its way out of his mother’s belly. But then, there was softness, too, and a fondness so profound that he could not make sense of it. He sighed, again. He was experiencing for the first time, a moment of pure joy. 

“Say hello to your brother,” she said. 

“Hello to my brother,” he said with a mischievous grin, and then a chuckle. 

He reached out and touched the baby’s palm, and when the tiny little fingers closed around his finger and the baby cooed, he yelped, and looked at his mother with eyes wide and cheeks flushed with delight. 

“He likes you,” she said with a smile. 

“I like him,” Auguste answered, his eyes falling on the baby’s scrunched up nose and mouth that slowly opened and shut like a fish out of water. 

“As you must,” his mother was saying. “He’s your baby brother. You must watch over him, always.” 

“Always,” Auguste assented, sincerely and without really having to think about it. He felt a devotion to this creature in a place inside himself that, moments ago, had not even existed. _“I will look after him always,"_ he was saying softly, to himself. _"Always, always, until the day I die.”_

***

The ride from Ios to Delpha was long and rough and from beginning to end, and all Damen wanted was to go home. He kept thinking back to the last he saw of his mother, on her knees at the doors of the palace. She was crying and wringing her hands together, her face white and her hair a tangled mess. And his grandfather and grandmother, shouting at his father’s soldiers when they came for him. His friends farewelled him with anguish in their faces, especially Nikandros, who clung to him and refused to let him go until the soldiers forcibly dragged him away. 

It had all unfolded rapidly, and Damen was powerless to stop any of it, or even to comprehend it. He simply let it happen to him, frozen in a dream-state, unable to move his body or make his voice heard. 

The days on the road that followed were endless, depriving time of all its meaning. Morning bled into night, night bled into morning. Now, as they finally entered the Veretian camp, the rain that poured down on Damen was cold and piercing as the eyes of Aleron’s men, who watched the sombre Akielon procession with visible disdain. 

“Keep your back straight and your head held high” Captain Makedon shouted, his voice unnecessarily loud and unstifled by the rain. “Don’t let the dogs see you cower. Not now, not ever!” 

Makedon lifted Damen down off his horse before a tent that was heavily guarded by Veretian men and steel. He stopped and stared at their armour and their dress, which was curious to him. His eyes opened wide when one of the guards unsheathed his sword and held the tip of it to Damen’s throat, but he did not flinch. Without moving his head, Damen searched for Makedon and saw that he, two, had a sword at his throat, as did the other Akielon soldiers. 

“Search them. Disarm them. Be quick, the King awaits.” 

He understood the words well enough, but it was the first time he had heard the Veretian language spoken with a Veretian tongue. 

Damen was dripping wet as he was jostled into the tent. His head was bowed, but when he recalled Makedon’s words, he lifted his eyes. He saw a man that was unknown to him, first, seated at a strangely decorated table by the brazier, in the centre of the tent. This man, he took to be the Veretian King. Then his eyes shifted and he saw his father seated opposite. It was the first time Damianos had seen him in many months. Though part of him was glad, he feared the displeasure on his father’s face. Was this his fault? Some transgression on his part that he unknowingly committed? Or perhaps it was simply that Damen’s haggard appearance brought him shame. 

But this was a fleeting thought, as Damen then saw the familiar shape of Kastor emerge from the shadows, and something in him unravelled. Before he knew what he was doing, he found himself running to his brother, who opened up his arms and pulled Damen close, holding him roughly. Kastor was squeezing him so tight that it hurt, but for Damen, it was the best kind of pain, and tears quickly began to burn in his eyes. 

His head was almost resting against his brother’s chest, he thought to himself. He had grown taller while Kastor had been at war, or Kastor had grown shorter! He wanted to say this out loud, but he bit his tongue. He could feel the tension in Kastor’s body. Whatever this was, it was not the time for laughter or games. 

“Damianos,” his heard his father say. “You are in the presence of the King of Vere.” 

Kastor released him, and Damen stood back, swallowing and gathering his bearings, before turning to face the two Kings. He walked to King Aleron, who regarded him with a look that was intense, but not unpleasant. Damen kneeled before him, with his hand pressed against his chest. 

“Exalted King of Vere,” he said with all the reverence that was due. 

“Prince Damianos,” Aleron replied. 

Damen then stood, and kneeled again, this time facing his father. 

“Exalted Father.” 

When there was no answer, Damen peered upwards, to find his father’s eyes on Aleron, his expression wrought with desperation. “Is there no other way?” 

“I am pleading with you, let me take his place!” he then heard Kastor say, in a tone he had never heard his brother use before. “I am the eldest of my father’s sons, I am…” 

“A bastard,” Aleron said, calmly but cuttingly reducing Kastor to silence. “You would have little currency in Vere and provide small comfort to her citizens.” He spoke with greater civility when addressing their father. “Have no fear. The boy will want for nothing.” 

“He will want for his own people,” Damen’s father countered, with a tremor to his voice. 

“And he shall return to them safely, when the time comes… provided, of course, Akielos adheres to the terms of its surrender. There are hostages aplenty in Ios, Theomedes. You know how these things go.” 

Damen was staring at Aleron, who turned and met his gaze. His eyes seemed to soften as he regarded Damen, and he said in a voice that seemed sincere, “It will not be so bad. You will see. You are, and shall remain, a Prince and will be treated as such. You will be raised, and trained, and tutored with my own sons.” 

_“Sons?”_ There was a hollowness to Theomedes’ voice, in contrast to the warmth that now flushed Aleron’s cheeks as he continued to regard Damen. 

“Sons, indeed. I have just received word. Vere, you see, has much to celebrate. Hitherto, the palace at Arles housed one little Prince, but soon it will be home to three.”


	2. The Oath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the beginning, the two princes are wary and suspicious of each other, but they soon find common ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A brief reminder (as it has been a long time since I posted) that Auguste and Damianos are children in this scene and Auguste is only a year older than Damianos. 
> 
> Next time I post, they will be in their teens.

Sitting in the throne room, Auguste found himself quite unable to stop looking at the King. 

He was not quite convinced that his father’s presence was not an illusion. It had been some hours since the Veretian army’s triumphant procession through the city gates, and his father’s return to the castle. It was not nearly long enough to lift the fog of all the months his father had been absent, with the prospect of his return made uncertain by the shadowy spectre of war. His father had spent much of that time with the Council, and whatever was left he passed with Auguste’s mother and baby Laurent, behind a closed door. 

Yet, Auguste did not doubt that his father was pleased to see him. It was in his eyes and in his powerful embrace when they were first reunited; an embrace which might have lifted Auguste’s feet off the ground a year or two earlier. 

And now he had pride of place, seated in a throne that dwarfed him, at his father’s right-hand side. He observed, whilst his father heard numerous petitions that had accumulated in his absence. There was not much of interest to a young boy, but Auguste was glad to be near his father, and to hear his father’s voice, which he had feared he was starting to forget. Auguste could always tell, by the small fluctuations in timbre and tone, whether his father found his petitioners to be worthy, or recalcitrant, or tedious, even though he typically sounded calm and measured to every one of them. 

After a time, Auguste saw his father’s expression change, and his eyes flicker with a certain fondness. He followed his line of sight to the King’s steward, who had just entered. The steward rarely ignited much warmth in his father, Auguste mused. But soon after he noticed that, standing behind the steward, there was a boy. A striking boy that Auguste had never seen before, of about Auguste’s age or a little younger. His interest was piqued, and he edged forward on his throne, so that his feet did not appear so far from the ground. 

“Father, who is that?” he asked, pointing. 

His father made a summoning gesture with his hand. The steward stepped aside and, clasping the boy’s shoulder, urged him towards the podium. 

“That, my boy, is our new guest. His name is Damianos. He is the Crown Prince of Akielos. 

Auguste perked a brow. “Who?” 

The boy approached, fidgeting with his trousers and his coat, which appeared somewhat ill fitted to his burly frame.

“Prince Damianos,” Aleron said (rather affectionately to Auguste’s ears), “allow me to present my eldest son, the Crown Prince Auguste of Vere.” 

“I am pleased to make your acquaintance,” Auguste said, holding out his hand gingerly. He had never met an Akielon before, let alone touched one. The strange boy regarded Auguste’s hand, but didn’t reach for it, and he didn’t so much open his mouth to speak. Auguste, somewhat affronted (in part, due to the slight, and in part at the shame of having failed at this first act of diplomacy before his father’s watchful gaze) let his hand fall back upon his lap. 

“He’s not very smart, is he?” 

The King bristled. “There is danger in taking a man’s silence as a sign of foolishness. It usually signifies the very opposite. 

His father’s displeasure left Auguste’s pride smarting, and his mouth twisted with irritation. Damianos’ expression was one of similar distaste, and it became clear that neither of them had anything further to say to the other. 

“Very well,” the King said, with an audible sigh. And, to the steward, “Take him to his rooms. See to it that he is made ready for the feast.” 

It bothered Auguste that the boy would be at the feast, because he had been looking forward to celebrating with his father, and he anticipated that dark, surly expression hovering over them like a storm cloud. And there was something else that bothered him, too – but he struggled to put his finger on precisely what it was. It was connected to the fact that he couldn’t stop thinking about the boy – the depth and darkness of his features, his thick and dishevelled black hair, the furrow in his brow when he refused to take Auguste’s hand and even the mystery of his voice, which he had denied to Auguste’s ears. The name “Damianos” was lodged in his head. He found it strange and troubling that he could not stop thinking of these things, and it made him resent the Akielon all the more. 

The situation was not improved at the feast – though, to anyone watching, Auguste appeared entirely disinterested. He barely glanced in Damianos’ direction and, instead, fixed his attention upon his father, who was answering questions about the war in the same reverent and sober tone he always used when he spoke of such things. Occasionally, when he spoke of a particularly inspired strategic move on the part of the Akielons, he would glance in Damianos’ direction, as if to give him credit. Auguste may have briefly looked once or twice, but only long enough to notice that Damianos had not touched any food and did not appear terribly grateful for the King’s courtesies. 

The King signalled when it was time for the younger boys to retire. The steward rose to accompany them and they fell into line at either side of him, walking silently. As they moved through the hallways, Auguste watched the shadows that they cast in the light of the wall sconces and saw that Damianos’ head was bowed, and so it remained until the steward handed him over to the guard outside his bedroom door. He was but a few doors away from Auguste’s own room, and it was a wonder to Auguste that his father was not more concerned that such a disgruntled and ill-tempered boy – a ruthless Akielon no less – might sneak out and murder them in their sleep! 

“I don’t know why my father doesn’t keep him locked up in the dungeons with the other prisoners!” Auguste said to the Steward as they crossed the short distance to his room – his anger finally rising up and spilling out of him. 

“That is my view of it too, Your Highness” the Steward said, resting his hand on Auguste’s shoulder as they stood at the threshold of his chamber door. “But your father insists that since the boy has lost his friends and his family, his home and the life he knew, all in the matter of weeks, we should not take his ill-temper personally.” 

These words were difficult for Auguste to hear and only drove him further to distraction. He was too preoccupied to notice the servants undressing him or helping him slip into his nightclothes. He simply found himself in bed, in the darkness, unable to sleep, and so he remained, long after the din from the great hall had quieted and the drunken courtiers had noisily stumbled back to their apartments.

He laid there, sleepless, for so long, that it seemed to him that night and day should have passed thrice over. As his eyes became accustomed to the darkness, the trompe l’oeil of his ceiling came into focus, and for the first time (because his mind had never wandered in this direction before) he wished at least one of the cherubs was not possessed of blue eyes and golden hair. 

Abruptly, he was drawn back from these fanciful thoughts by the sound of shuffling outside his window. He had grown so accustomed to the dead silence of night that he heard it clearly. It grew louder, and felt nearer, until a giant shadow passed over his window like a monstrous spider, and he shuddered, drawing the covers over his head.

He closed his eyes, his chest rising and falling as he lost his breath, and then sought to regain it. He was being foolish… there were no giant spiders this far north! And besides, he was the Crown prince. If he didn’t have the courage to face such creatures, who would? 

He swallowed his fear and held his breath, crawling out from beneath the covers. The floor felt icy cold against his bare feet as he silently padded across it, and when he pulled aside the sheer white curtains, the moonlight was bright enough to blur his vision. Slowly, he drew the latch and pushed one of the window pains open. He peered outside of it, and the figure that he saw precariously scaling the corbels was unmistakable. He winced, squeezing his eyes shut, certain that at any moment the sandstone would come loose and he would witness the fatal fall. He wondered, briefly, if Akielon blood ran red, too… but quickly decided he did not want to find out! 

Seconds later, with his boots drawn up over his bare feet and a long coat thrown over his nightclothes, he was sneaking through the shadows. Familiar as he was with the labyrinth of corridors and the placement of the nightguards, he was able to avoid detection, and soon found himself at the threshold of a small door that, by day, led the servants to the courtyard. He opened it slowly and took pause when he felt a gust of cool air pass over him. The courtyard at this hour was completely unknown to him, and his heart was thundering in his chest. 

He took a deep breath, and stepped out, darting around the building to the east facing wall. He looked up at his bedroom window, which was still ajar, and then, with his heart in his throat, realised that there was no longer a figure to be seen. He scanned the wall and shivered, afraid to turn his eyes to the ground for fear that he would see the mangled body of the boy. 

Even before he’d found the courage to look, he heard a rustling at a small distance that gave him hope, and he turned to see a low light shining from the direction of the palace stables. He ran towards it, trying his best to be light on his feet to soften his footsteps on the stone. 

Sure enough, when he reached the stables, the boy was visible through the crack in the doorway, doing his best to soothe one of the horses who had been startled by the intrusion. Auguste watched him silently, the gentle way he stroked the creature’s forehead and muzzle. He heard, for the first time, the voice that had earlier eluded him. Having heard it, he felt that he would never forget it. Auguste wished he understood the words. 

For the first time since leaving his bed, he let his footsteps fall heavily, so he would be heard. The boy turned quickly, visibly shocked to see Auguste – probably doubly so, Auguste sheepishly thought, given his strange ensemble and, no doubt, wild hair and sleepy eyes. It seemed a strange time to be embarrassed about his appearance. Then again, it had been a very strange day. 

The boy muttered something quickly, and Auguste frowned. 

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t speak Akielon.” 

The response was a growl of frustration, and then in broken Veretian, “I am going home!” 

Auguste felt the pain and fear in the words as if it were he himself who had been torn from his family and it was confusing to him. He had known sympathy before, but not like this. He felt a burning in his eyes. 

“You would never survive the journey,” he said. 

“I will survive. And if I don’t, I don’t care – dying would be better than being a prisoner in this place!” 

“Is it so bad?” 

“Yes!” he shouted, his voice rattling the horse once again. He muttered something softly to the horse which Auguste assumed was an apology, and then whispered hoarsely, “Yes! Everything about this place is stupid. The food, the clothes, the people – especially the people!” 

“That’s not very nice, Prince Damianos…” 

“Hypocrite! When your father introduced us you said I wasn’t very smart…” 

Auguste was lost for words, and stuttered for several moments before blurting out, “You wouldn’t speak to me!” 

“I’m your prisonor!” was the immediate retort.” 

Auguste swallowed, anxiously, and found his voice again. “Well, you can’t run away, even if we’re all stupid, because if you do, you will die, and your father will think my father killed you, and then they’ll both have to go back to war and one of them will probably die, and since your army is the weaker one, it will probably be your father – and then you’ll be dead and your father will be dead and then you won’t be any happier, will you?” 

Damianos began to tremble with rage and fear, both equally enflamed by the truth in what Auguste was telling him. 

“Why do you care? At least then you won’t have to worry about me or my father again!” 

“I don’t want to never have to worry about you again. I was so scared, thinking you were going to fall down that wall to your death!” 

Auguste’s fatigue and the strangeness of the entire situation had caused a disconcerting degree of earnestness. There was a heat in Auguste’s cheeks at having made the confession, but however sorely he was tempted, he didn’t retract it. 

“You don’t want me to run away because you don’t want your father to be blamed!” 

“That’s true,” Auguste said, choosing the words more carefully. “But… I could have told the guards to catch you, if that was all I cared about.” 

Damianos’ eyes became soft, and his guard came down a little. It made Auguste’s chest ache, and he took a step closer. And then he took another, and another, until he was close enough to reach out and clasp the boy’s arm. They both were still and looked at each other in earnest. 

“I want to go home,” Damianos said, the pain in his voice clawing at Auguste’s chest. “I miss my family.” 

“My father will let you go when the time is right…” 

“What if he doesn’t?” 

“Then I will let you go,” Auguste answered, “When I am King, or at least, old enough to convince my father. I will make sure you return home to your family. I swear it on my honour.” 

Auguste had never sworn an oath before. He had never even made a promise that came as deeply from his heart as this one. It made him feel much older, especially as his word seemed to mean something to Damianos. There was a glimmer of hope, now, amidst the sadness in his eyes. There was trust, between them – Auguste could feel it. Somehow, they understood each other. 

“I don’t really think all Veretians are stupid,” Damianos said. 

Auguste shrugged. “Some of them are.” 

They both smiled, and then laughed, and the horse leaned in and nuzzled at Damianos’ hair, startling him a little. 

They made their way across the courtyard together in silence, and Auguste led the way back to their rooms – and in doing so, revealed to Damianos a way in and out of the palace that would elude the guards (not that he needed it). 

They feared to speak, even to wish each other good night, so they clasped hands and smiled a little as they parted ways. 

The following morning, Auguste woke late, and was told to find his father and Damianos at the stables – the very stables where Auguste and Damianos had met the night before. He found his father with the Master of the King’s Horses. “Good afternoon,” his father said (though Auguste knew that it was not quite so late). “Trouble sleeping?” 

There was a knowingness in his father’s tone that troubled Auguste, but the King did not seem displeased, and whatever concern Auguste felt in that moment, he was quickly distracted from at the sight of Damianos mounted on one of the King’s horses – the very one that had startled the night before. 

“Do you like her?” Damianos asked, with a proper smile. Auguste smiled back and nodded. He was too small and short to ride such a horse, but with Damianos’ larger frame, he could manage it. Auguste was admiringly envious. 

“I like her very much,” he answered. 

“Your father gave her to me,” Damianos said, almost gleefully. “He said I can ride her wherever and whenever I want to!” 

This newly discovered capacity for boyish happiness in Damianos made Auguste chuckle. “Lucky you. What is she called?” 

Damianos declared proudly, beaming a smile down at Auguste, “Her name is Reine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you Spiritheart, I couldn't have and wouldn't have written this without your enduring interest and encouragement xx

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you Spiritheart for inspiring me and encouraging me. I'm so grateful x


End file.
